


The Fisherman's Wife

by psocoptera



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Popslash
Genre: Early Work, M/M, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-10-27
Updated: 2002-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psocoptera/pseuds/psocoptera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of "The Fisherman's Wife" with Joey as the fisherman, Justin as the wife, and Lance as the fish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fisherman's Wife

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fairy Tale Challenge.
> 
> "The Fisherman's Wife" as written down by the Brothers Grimm can be read [here](http://fairytales4u.com/story/fisherma.htm).

Joey liked to drop in on people. He had a theory that everyone had more fun if you just caught people at a good time instead of trying to make plans in advance. 

He had not caught Lance at a good time. 

Lance was drunk. Crying. Half-naked. And being interviewed by someone Joey was pretty sure wrote for _Teen People_. 

"Hey," Joey said, flashing his best "we're just regular guys surrounded by these crazy celebrities, huh" grin at the interviewer, "It's your lucky day! Two NSync members for the price of one!" 

He used his best "everything's cool here" walk to cross Lance's living room and settle into a big armchair at the third point of an equilateral triangle from Lance and the interviewer, so the interviewer had to look away from Lance to keep eye contact with Joey. 

He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I've been having some thoughts lately about my next theatrical project after _Rent_ ," he said, while waving his hand in casual shooing motions at Lance in a message of "go wash your face, and, while you're at it, you know what would look great with that shirt? Pants." 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lance get up. 

By the time Lance got back (wearing, Joey thanked God, blue jeans and a composed expression), Joey had denied the possibility of a revival of _Grease_ , hinted at everything from Sondheim to Lloyd Webber to Randy Newman's _Faust_ , convinced the interviewer to leave out everything Lance had said after "Russia? Of course I'm disappointed," and determined that he in fact wrote for the regular _People_. 

Lance smiled, thanked the interviewer for his patience, offered him the use of one of his limos for the rest of the day "as a thanks for taking up so much of your time going on", saw him out the door, and sagged in relief. 

Joey dropped the casual grin. 

"Lance?" he said, putting a careful hand on his shoulder, not sure whether he was afraid of seeing a closed, set, expression or an open look of despair. "Lance?" 

But when he turned to Joey his eyes were bright. "Hey," Lance said, "Thanks for catching me there. I really owe you one, man." 

*** 

"He said he owed you one?" Justin said. 

"Well, yeah, but, Justin, he was really *upset*, I think you're missing the point here." 

"No, dude," Justin said, "I think *you're* missing the point here. *Lance* said he *owed* you a *favor* and you didn't ask for anything?" 

"Well, no," Joey said, bemused, "What do I need a favor from Lance for?" 

"Lance!" Justin shouted, smacking Joey in the back of the head. "You moron, Lance has his finger in every pie from here to everywhere that counts, and you didn't think to ask him to wiggle one?" 

"Vodka pie, maybe," Joey muttered distractedly. "Look, Just, I think he's a little preoccupied right now but if there's something you need I'm sure Lance would be happy to..." 

"No he wouldn't," Justin interrupted, "He said he wouldn't." He pouted. 

Joey didn't like Justin's pout. "Well, maybe he couldn't..." 

"*Wouldn't*," Justin interrupted again, still pouting. "All I wanted was a good review from _Rolling Stone_ of my solo album, and I *know* Lance knows the reviews editor, but no. But now he owes you a favor, so you can go ask him and he'll have to!" 

Joey really didn't like Justin's pout. 

*** 

"A good review", Lance repeated. 

"Yeah," Joey said, a little embarrassed. "Do you think you could... I mean, if it's too much trouble, don't... I don't wanna... but you said, from the other day, so..." 

"For Justin," Lance said. His eyes were a flat, unreadable green. "A good review for Justin. He'll have one." 

Joey felt a little awkward, a little unsure, like he was maybe missing something. "Thanks, man," he said. 

"Well, go tell him," Lance said, "He'll have his review." 

*** 

It was a good review, a really good review, it used phrases like "surprising depth" and "lyrical talent" and Justin clapped his hands and laughed and attempted to pick Joey up and spin around with him but had to settle for knocking him over and kissing him thoroughly, which, Joey reflected, was why he put up with things like Justin's pout. 

A week later he was sulking again. 

"I'm being beaten by a dead man," he told Joey, flopping onto the couch with a deep sigh. 

"Er?" Joey said perplexedly. 

"On the charts," Justin said. " _30 #1 Hits_ is still on top of the Billboard 200. That should be *me* up there, dude. Not some fat lounge singer from fifty years ago." 

"Er," Joey said patiently, trying not to roll his eyes. 

"I should have asked Lance," Justin said plaintively. "Here you save his ass and what do I ask for? One review, one simple review that I'm sure I would have gotten anyways, but, no, I have to have new album nerves, I have to waste a favor like that. I bet he didn't even talk to that editor at _Rolling Stone_ and is congratulating himself for getting off the hook with such a small thing." 

"Er," Joey said reprovingly, and made to go on, but Justin kept talking. 

"You ought to go back to Lance and tell him we want a better favor," Justin said. "Get Elvis out of there, that's not hurting anybody." 

"Justin," Joey said firmly, "Billboard is a _sales chart_ , I don't think Lance can just - " 

"Sure he can," Justin said. "We're talking about *Lance* here, Joey." 

"But," Joey said, "Even supposing he could, which, Justin, I think you may have a slightly overinflated impression of Lance's influence here, but, even if he could, I already asked for that review, and, you know, I think he *did* call that editor, and asking for something else is just going to piss him off, and..." 

As Joey spoke he watched the pout form and set on Justin's face, and trailed off when he could no longer deny that he was going to be talking to Lance soon. 

*** 

"I have a bad feeling about this," Joey said under his breath, knocking on Lance's door. Somehow using his key seemed a little presumptuous when he was there to ask for a favor. 

"What's up?" Lance asked, but with a certain raise of his eyebrow that said he already knew why Joey was there. 

"Um," Joey said, "It's Justin. He, um, I know this is really silly, but, he, um, wanted me to ask if you could somehow, I don't even know what he had in mind, but - " 

"What does he want?" Lance asked coolly. His eyes were a dull, dark color, almost grey. 

"To displace Elvis on Billboard," Joey blurted out. He couldn't quite meet that calm, heavy look of Lance's. 

"So Justin wants to be King," Lance said. "Okay." 

"Okay?" Joey said, incredulous. "What, you're just gonna - " 

"Go home and tell him," Lance said. "He'll be number one next week." 

*** 

Joey didn't know what to think when Justin's album came in at number one the next week. Lance was apparently more influential than he had realized. He decided not to question it too closely when Justin hugged him, and as they sat at the kitchen table, the three of them (Joey and Justin and Justin's laptop with billboard.com pulled up in a full-screen window) Joey thought they would be content. 

Justin woke him up the next morning playing _Thriller_. 

"Too... erleefer... bad..." Joey mumbled. "Mm back to bed." 

"You know this is the best-selling album of all time?" Justin said, ignoring Joey's dazed, wincing squint and hands fumbling for a pillow to hide under. "I mean, just think about that. Over 25 million copies in the US alone." 

"Ugh," Joey grunted. "Annee's gotdat liddlepoinnynose..." He put the pillow over his head. 

"Joey!" Justin said, grabbing the pillow and throwing it off the bed. "Are you paying attention here? We gotta think big here, man! We gotta think _bad!_ " 

"Very bad," Joey mumbled. "Bad bad. Bed?" 

"Lance," Justin said. "Record sales. Go." 

"Wait," Joey said, coming awake. "Think about that, Justin. Do you really want to be the next Michael Jackson? Pedophilia, plastic surgery, giraffes..." 

"I'm not messed up like that," Justin said impatiently. "I'm handling my stardom just fine. I just want to be the best, Joey." 

*** 

Joey, driving as slowly as possible on the way over to Lance's, thought that he didn't really want Justin to be the best, that he kind of missed a curly-headed kid who pulled up porn on his laptop instead of sales charts. 

Lance's eyes glittered dangerously when he opened his door. 

"What is it now?" he asked when he saw Joey. "Fountain of youth? Golden apple? Parade down Main Street in his honor?" 

"He wants to outsell _Thriller_ ," Joey said reluctantly. 

"Our little Justin the new Prince of Pop," Lance said snarkily. "Well, run along and tell him, I'm sure he'll be glad to hear it." 

*** 

He wasn't. He was already pouting by the time Joey got home. 

"What," Joey said, "Aren't you *thrilled*? Your sales are insane, you're busting records right and left..." 

"I know," Justin said uneasily, "But I'm just kind of, I don't know, jumpy about it. I just need a little more, it's just sales, I'm just sitting here watching the numbers. I want to get *recognized*, man." 

*** 

Lance's eyes seethed and boiled furiously like twin hotsprings, a harsh, chemical green. 

"Awards," Joey said, and "Awards," Lance repeated. 

Lance flicked him back to Justin with a casual shooing motion. 

*** 

They announced that because of Justin's record they were holding the Grammys early, that night, and he won all of them, even the ones for classical and jazz and "best female vocal", because his album was just that much better than anything else. 

Justin paced backstage, agitated. 

"Maybe there should be a Church of Justin," he said, laughing maniacally. "I'm already bigger than God." 

"Justin!" Joey said. "Listen to yourself, man! That's not you talking!" 

Justin showed no sign of hearing Joey. "I want to be worshipped," he said, addressing the room around him. "I want people to raise monuments of me and pray to them. Go ask Lance." 

"No *way*," Joey said, "I'm not going to say that to Lance, Jesus is still his personal Saviour, you know? Like it used to be for some other people I can think of?" 

Justin focused on Joey then, and Joey shuddered. "You *will* go to Lance, Joey," Justin commanded imperiously. 

"I'm not going to do that, Justin," Joey said, trembling. 

"I really think you will!" Justin screamed, and threw one of his Grammys through the window, and overturned the craft services table, laden with caviar and saffron and ambrosia. "I rule this town, Joey! You think you're ever going to record again without me? You think you're ever going to step onstage again without my permission? You think anyone will ever hear you sing another note if you don't do what I tell you to?" 

Joey looked at Justin's hysterics and fled, running blindly towards Lance's. 

*** 

Lance found him cowering in the bushes outside his house. Joey hid his face in his arms, expecting Lance's eyes to be terrible, pea soup green like hurricane skies or something. 

"Joey," Lance said, putting a careful hand on his shoulder. "Joey, what're you doing out here?" 

"Couldn't ask you," Joey said, shaking his head from side to side, still curled into a tight ball of fear. "M'not gonna ask you, no more asking, been too much asking already. Leaving. M'so sorry Lance... never... just didn't want to see you cry... didn't want them to see you cry, wouldn't have asked for *anything*, didn't owe me *anything*, I'll go away..." 

"Joey," Lance said, and tucked gentle fingers under his chin and lifted his face to meet his eyes. 

Lance's eyes were a calm, sunlit green. 

"Joey," Lance said, "I thought you wanted all that stuff. I didn't... I didn't do it because I owed you a favor, I thought it was what you wanted." 

Joey stared at Lance's eyes. "You're not angry?" he said stupidly. 

Lance smiled and shook his head. "Nah," he said, "Maybe there was a little bitterness and subtle revenge in there. Possibly." 

"You think?" Joey said, and then, "Wait, for the review?" He felt like he should be confused, but that he somehow couldn't care. 

"Silly," Lance said, "I wasn't actually crying about Russia, you know." 

"I'm pretty sure "heartbreaking ex-commie bastards" is a direct quote," Joey said, trying not to leap to any conclusions and failing miserably. 

"I wasn't *that* drunk," Lance said, "I wasn't about to out myself to _People_ , for godsakes." 

"Then..." Joey said, and gave up on words, and wrapped his hand around Lance's fingers that were still resting under his chin and drew Lance's hand across his face. 

Lance's eyes sparkled and shone green like waves, and Joey wondered how he had ever been in love with anything but the sea. 

::End:: 

_Postscript_  
"Wait," Joey said somewhat later. "Our other best friend? Tall, new album, gibbering lunatic, ring any bells?" 

"Don't worry," Lance murmured. "He'll be fine." 

"But the *gibbering*," Joey said, "And they _held the Grammys early_." 

"People are really good at forgetting this kind of thing," Lance said. "Tomorrow Justin will be back on TRL where he belongs and he'll hardly remember anything ever happened, except" his arm tightening around Joey, "For a few permanent rearrangements. But he'll be back to normal." 

Joey looked at Lance a little oddly, but decided not to question it too closely.


End file.
